


to the beat of our noisy hearts

by seimaisin



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-21
Updated: 2010-09-21
Packaged: 2017-10-13 07:54:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seimaisin/pseuds/seimaisin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thanks to <a href="http://tricksterquinn.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://tricksterquinn.livejournal.com/"><b>tricksterquinn</b></a> for reading this over and assuring me it didn't suck. :) Title stolen shamelessly from Matt Nathanson.</p>
    </blockquote>





	to the beat of our noisy hearts

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://tricksterquinn.livejournal.com/profile)[**tricksterquinn**](http://tricksterquinn.livejournal.com/) for reading this over and assuring me it didn't suck. :) Title stolen shamelessly from Matt Nathanson.

They rarely went out to places like this; Ariadne preferred quieter bars, places where people could hold a conversation at normal levels. Arthur and Eames, meanwhile, were united in their love of casinos, though Arthur's tastes were far more high-brow than Eames'. None of them, however, would normally pick a crowded dance club, where the bass vibrated through a person's chest and a mass of sweaty, barely-dressed bodies mimicked sexual acts in the middle of the floor. Tonight, however, had felt like a different sort of night. The conclusion of a job well done, a dinner that included a couple of bottles of wine and a round of shots ... and somehow, Eames found himself alone at a table in the corner of a dingy club, feet kicked out onto the chair opposite of him, feeling loose and warm. An expensive suit jacket was draped over the chair to his left; a bright pink frozen drink slowly melted to his right. In front of him, dozens of indistinguishable bodies writhed to beats that Eames would normally hesitate to label 'music', but he was feeling generous tonight, and the rhythms were lulling him into a comfortable trance.

His eyes were fixed on the edge of the crowd, where a couple swayed with slightly less rhythm than the usual patrons. Ariadne wore a rare skirt, a concession to the heat and humidity in this island resort town. Her legs were pale and slender underneath the skirt, leading down to a pair of strappy green heels that she'd just purchased that day. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders; it looked slightly damp and tangled, but that hadn't stopped Arthur from burying one of his hands in it, holding her head tipped up to look at him. His other hand splayed across her lower back, just low enough to be obviously more than friendly. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, and the top three buttons of his shirt were undone. His movements were looser than normal, the product of having downed nearly a full bottle of wine on his own, and his hair tumbled down over his forehead in dark curls. They moved just out of time with the music, but their focus was entirely on each other. Arthur bent down to say something over the music, and Ariadne laughed. His eyes crinkled, and he pulled her closer, taking the hand out of her hair and sliding it slowly down the back of her tank top. She pressed a kiss to his jaw.

They were, Eames thought, the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"Dance with me," Ariadne had demanded of the table at large. She looked from Arthur to Eames and back again.

Eames had held up his hands. "No dancing. It's been a rule since the lamentable year our physical education teacher decided folk dancing was a necessary part of the secondary school experience."

Arthur laughed. "Folk dancing? Really?"

"I was pitiful. And Miranda Baker's older brother nearly beat the piss out of me for groping her, which, for once, was not my intention."

Ariadne smacked his arm lightly. "This isn't that kind of dancing. It's just ... swaying, sort of. Moving. It's sexy."

"Yes, yes it is." Eames leaned over and nipped at her ear, causing her to emit a high-pitched squeak. "I prefer to watch."

"He does," Arthur agreed. "Haven't you figured that out by now?" He stood up and offered his hand to Ariadne. "Come on. I am just drunk enough to give this a shot."

He did love watching them, it was true. That was how he'd ended up in this crazy triangle in the first place; a moment in that god-forsaken warehouse in Paris, seeing miles of pale skin and entangled limbs stretched out over one of the lounges. Ariadne straddled Arthur, and their wordless moans echoed across the open room. It was late, Eames shouldn't have been there - but he was, and he stood and watched their bodies move until both had shuddered to a stop. Ariadne collapsed onto Arthur's chest, which gave him the chance to spot Eames.

Awkwardness had ensued, of course. But awkwardness turned to curiosity, which turned to tension, which eventually led to the ridiculously large bed in Arthur's loft. Eames hadn't expected it to last much more than that night, much less a whole year. But yet, here they were, on the other side of the world, occupying one hotel suite and continuing to enjoy the particular idiosyncrasies of each others' bodies. It worked. God only knew why, Eames thought, but it worked.

The pulsating beat that blasted over the club's speakers became faster, which Eames assumed meant this loud mess of electronic sounds was a different song. On the dance floor, Ariadne pulled out of Arthur's grasp. Laughing, she began to bounce around in a passable imitation of every young American woman Eames had ever seen in bars and clubs around the world. She tugged on Arthur's hand, but he shook his head and twirled her around until she was dizzy enough to stumble back into his arms. Her face was bright and open; innocent, Eames thought, in a way she rarely was these days. The longer she worked in this business - the more she learned about ducking local authorities, about lying her way into situations she had no business being in - the less he saw that wide, gorgeous smile. He'd feel guilty about corrupting her, he supposed, if he wasn't so bloody selfish. Besides, the fault ultimately lay with Cobb for recruiting her in the first place. Had Cobb not gone to the university looking for an architect, neither he nor Arthur would have ever had the chance to teach her anything untoward.

He made a mental note to send Cobb a fruit basket.

Arthur's arms wrapped around Ariadne's waist, and she squirmed, causing him to laugh and bury his face in her hair. She rarely held still when one of them touched her; for all that she could sit and concentrate on a sketch or a model for hours at a time, when she was turned on, she never stopped moving. Eames was fond of pinning her to the bed just to feel her body writhe underneath him. Sometimes, he and Arthur would trap her between them, three strong hands holding her body still while one hand slipped between her legs and did things that caused her to pull and push at their restraining grip, that made her swear like a sailor and gasp for air. She often had bruises on her arms and hips, but she never complained. Eames had seen her study herself in the mirror, a ghost of a smile crossing her face as she ran a fingertip over blue marks that would match up with his or Arthur's hands, should they ever compare.

Eames watched as, out on the dance floor, Arthur tickled her just above her hip. She tried even harder to pull out of his grasp, but Arthur's size and superior physical strength won out. Control was always the name of Arthur's game, in love or in business. Eames and Ariadne joined forces to wrest tiny bits of that control from him, to poke and cajol and irritate and seduce until they ended up on a night like this, with Arthur unrestrained and smiling and not worrying about a damned thing except how to make Ariadne - and Eames, if the amused glance Arthur had just thrown over to the table was any indication - laugh. Eames tipped his glass at Arthur and waggled his eyebrows. Arthur winked in response before spinning Ariadne suddenly out of his arms. She stumbled into another dancer before righting herself and glaring at Arthur. Oh, yes, Arthur was in a playful mood. If he could get the two of them back to their hotel without incident, Eames pondered what they might be able to do with a pliant Arthur. Not that Eames had any problem at all letting Arthur take control during sex - god, no, not when a firm twist of Arthur's hand or just the right thrust of his cock into Eames' body could have Eames coming apart faster than he had since he was a teenager - but it was fun when he could turn the tables. Yes, he thought as Arthur and Ariadne wound their way towards him, that sounded like a brilliant plan. He imagined a scenario in which Arthur lay on his back, in which Eames' cock and Ariadne's mouth combined to make Arthur shake and moan loud enough that the poor residents of the suite next door would be reduced to pounding on the walls and calling security. Eames laughed at the thought.

"Something funny?" Ariadne asked as she arrived back at the table. She walked past her own chair and plopped herself into Eames' lap.

He wrapped his arms around her waist and looked up at Arthur, who leaned against the table and grabbed Ariadne's abandoned drink. The sight of Arthur sipping the obnoxiously pink drink through a straw was more than a little ridiculous, and he heard Ariadne start to giggle. He leaned in and pressed his lips to her ear. "What do you say," he murmured, "we take him back to the hotel and make him scream?"

Ariadne turned her head and pressed an enthusiastic kiss to his mouth. Eames slipped his tongue between her lips and stole a much dirtier kiss than the one she'd intended. She tasted of sweat and cherry lip gloss, and she made the loveliest noise when he nipped at her lip as he pulled away. "I think," she said, rubbing her nose against his, "that might be the best idea you've had in a long time."

"What idea?" Arthur asked.

There had been a moment, back in those early, awkward days, when Eames convinced himself to leave. Hot threesome sex was nice, he told himself, but relationships were a drag, and he didn't need the kind of complications these two particular people would bring to his life. He would just finish the job they were working on, and then he'd go find work somewhere on the other side of the globe. By the day of the extraction, he'd checked out of his hotel and had his luggage stored at the front desk. He was done. It was time to move on.

On the way to the mark's home - Arthur had gone ahead, having secured an invitation to a private business meeting, to prepare the way - Eames quizzed Ariadne about the layout of the upscale shopping mall she'd designed for the dream. After a while, she threw her head back against the car seat, frustrated. "Eames! We've been over this a dozen times. Don't you trust me?"

A moment. Nothing special, just a minor work related squabble, the kind of nonsense the three of them engaged in daily. But for some reason, when he said, "Yes, of course I trust you," something unidentifiable slotted into place inside his chest. He didn't acknowledge it until they walked into the mark's townhouse; Ariadne crossed the living room and tugged playfully on Arthur's vest as she set the PASIV down at his feet. He ruffled her hair and gave Eames a small smile over her head. Eames felt his mouth go dry, though he couldn't explain it to himself, not then, not a year later.

When the job was done, Eames retrieved his luggage from the hotel and dragged it to Arthur's loft. The next morning, he woke up with Ariadne's head pillowed on his arm and Arthur's breath blowing warm and even on the back of his neck. Complicated, he thought, but a challenge, and he did love a challenge, didn't he?

He might, Eames thought, be a little bit drunk himself, if he was thinking about such things in a humid, crowded dance club.

Arthur looked down at Eames, a smile playing across his lips. Ariadne wound her arms around his neck and leaned her cheek against his hair. Eames ran his hand up Ariadne's leg and grinned up at Arthur. "Trust me, this idea is worth your while."

Arthur looked at him for a moment, then shrugged. "Okay. What are we doing?"

Ariadne hopped off of Eames' lap. "Going home and getting you naked," she announced cheerfully.

"Oh. I like that plan."

When Eames stood up, Arthur pulled him close and kissed him quickly. His breath smelled of wine, and his stubble scratched against Eames' own. "You belong to us tonight, darling," Eames said, pulling away and gesturing towards the door.

Arthur grinned. "That's nothing new," he said. Something stirred in Eames' chest, but he chose not to name it.

In the morning, they'd check out of their hotel and move on to the next job. Arthur probably had something already picked out, with airline tickets booked in their current preferred aliases. Tomorrow, Ariadne would probably sit in a first-class airline seat and stare intently at a sketchbook, lips pursed and body still. When they woke, Arthur and Ariadne would be the most recognizable versions of themselves, the people Eames was just a bit more than fond of. Or maybe a lot more than fond of. He was still working out the degree of fondness. It was a much larger degree than he'd ever expected, though.

Tomorrow would take care of itself, though. It always did. Tonight ... well, tonight, it was easy to follow Ariadne out into the damp night, where he could smell the sea mixed with the sweat of tourists. Arthur's hand pressed into his back, and Ariadne skipped ahead of them like a child, carrying her shoes in her hand.

"Oh!" Ariadne exclaimed. She turned around and started to skip backwards. "I have a great idea!"

"Is this in addition to the naked idea?" Arthur asked.

"Yes!"

Eames raised an eyebrow. "What other idea could we possibly need?"

"Don't you trust me?"

The next morning, he was briefly tempted to regret his answer; Ariadne had an inventive imagination, and dreamscapes weren't the only thing she loved bending into impossible shapes. He was old, he occasionally complained to her, and not meant to move that way. But he never said no - not when saying yes meant Ariadne's soft, slender legs wrapped around him, meant hearing Arthur laugh low in his ear as his nimble fingers played across Eames' skin until it burned. He might require painkillers in the morning, but by god, it was always worth it.

The evening breeze blew Ariadne's hair into her face, and she pushed it aside with the hand that held her shoes. Arthur looked sideways at Eames, cocking his head and smirking. Eames chuckled. He looked at both of them when he replied. "Of course I do, love. Always."

Someday, he thought, he might cease to be surprised by the truth of that statement.

~*~


End file.
